The Secret Life of Professor Moriarty
by andbreathe
Summary: When you're having detailed fantasies about commanding an army of elves in your office, you know you're bored. Moriarty's having one of those exceptionally dull days when, to liven things up, she walks in (I would have put that 'she' in italics, only you can't on summaries, you're just going to have to imagine)- a Time Lady, going by the name of Missy, looking for help.
1. Borrrrred

Professor James Moriarty was drinking coffee. His feet were resting on the desk in front of him, about an inch in front of the keyboard. He was clasping a mug in his left hand and fiddling with his tie with his right.

Moriarty was bored. Bored, bored, borrrrred. He had so many brilliant plans to carry out, so many things to do. He could find a new way to have _fun_, which would probably include screaming. But could he be bothered?

He mulled over the concept for a few seconds. Nope, he couldn't.

Bored, bored, bored.

Boring soufflé with dull cream on top.

Moriarty lifted his feet off the desk and swung round on his chair. He carried on spinning for a few seconds. When he began to slow down, he set himself off spinning again. And again. And again.

Ok, that was boring too. He stopped and placed his feet on the floor.

Moriarty bent his knees forward. The chair rolled forward. He leaned back. The chair went back. Backwards, forwards. Backwards, forwards. Backwardsforwardsbackwardsforwardsbackwards.

Borrrred.

He looked into his coffee mug, which was bright pink with daisies on. The coffee swirled inside it. Dull brown coffee in a dull mug. Okay, the coffee in question was deliciously expensive civet coffee, made from beans hand-picked from civet cats' droppings (having been matured to perfection inside the cats' digestive systems), but it was still just coffee. Coffee, coffee, in a boring old mug.

Moriarty reached behind him for a wine glass that was sitting helpfully on the desk. He poured the coffee into it experimentally. Coffee in a wine glass. It was refreshingly interesting. He took a sip.

Nope, it still tasted like boring coffee.

He dropped his head onto the back of the chair. He was a genius, a genius with the resources and the authority to do whatever he *? !*!ing well wished. He could order his... friends... to throw themselves off a cliff and they'd have to do what he asked. So why was life so boring?

After a few seconds, he reached for his pistol and pointed it at the wall.

Nope, boring, plus he liked the wallpaper. He lazily swung it to face the door instead. He could cut a perfect rectangle in the door if he wanted. A tiny door, so he could provide facilities for elves. Elves?! Where did that come from? Why elves?

He laughed as a sudden thought came to him. He could have a whole army of elves, all squeaking as they hurried to obey his every command. If they didn't perform to standard he could decimate them.

Decimate. Now there was a nice word. Remove one-tenth... Yes, he could get them to stand in a line, and slowly walk up the ranks, the elves squeaking in terror while he looked on mercilessly... and when he got to the tenth... bang. Elf-brains everywhere. Did elves have brains? What even_ were_ elves? And why on earth was he even thinking this?

The boredom was taking its toll.

Moriarty took a careful aim. His secretary could clean up afterwards. Did he have a secretary? If he did, this would be a nice surprise. A secretary doing his cleaning because he so thoughtfully blew a hole in the door. He smiled to think of it. Secretaries didn't do cleaning, but who cares? Serves them right for working for him. He curled his finger elegantly around the trigger.

Then _she_ walked in.


	2. Umbrellas

"Put the gun down," she said sweetly.

She looked like Mary Poppins. Right down to the umbrella, which was obsidian black and clasped in one of her gloved hands. Who in their right mind would dress like that? Especially the hat; it was sickly to look at. It looked like somebody had exploded a fruit bowl over her head. She was wearing Victorian-style clothes: a black jacket and a skirt so pinched at the waist it was painful to look at.

He stood up. For some reason, she looked familiar. He took long, slow steps towards the woman, still holding his gun in front of him. "And who are you?" he asked.

"Oh, nobody special," she said silkily. "I just popped in to say hello."

Moriarty looked at her for a few seconds, and then groaned. "You're not one of those infernal forces for good, are you? I had one of those break in yesterday. The same old story: revenge for the death of their sister, which, interestingly, I wasn't anything to do with." He stopped as he saw that the woman was watching him with something like- amusement? What on earth? "He was soon disposed of," he added. No reaction from the woman.

"Oh, I once tried to be a force for good," said the woman. "It didn't work. It was just too boring."

Interesting. "You're challenging me."

"Not at all. I merely came to seek... help."

"You must realise I am not the sort of person to give favours."

"Of course."

Moriarty froze. There was something in that tone. "You're threatening me, yet you are the one at the point of the gun."

The woman sighed, and pointed her umbrella at Moriarty. He raised an eyebrow. What was she going to do, kill him with bad fashion taste? He tightened his finger on the trigger. "I'm warning you..."

"Likewise," she said. There was a buzzing noise from the umbrella, and his gun exploded into billions of little bits. He was left holding only air.

There was a silence. "Impressive," he said after a few seconds.

She smiled. "_So_ nice of you to say so. And now we can talk."

"You want to bargain?"

"Bargain is such a friendly word. No, I want to... blackmail."

"Oh?" said Moriarty.

"Oh yes. You are now the one at the point of the gun. And you like being alive so much, don't you, James? So you be a dear and... assist me."

"There's nothing I would like better." Moriarty plastered a smile on his face, but was grimacing inside. How could so much go wrong in one morning? Now he was the one at the end of the gun, at the mercy of some madwoman. It was a new experience, he supposed.


	3. Bound

**AN: Disclaimer: This story is intended to be wholly just me having fun, and so the characters are more what I want them to be rather than what they actually are. I hope that won't stop you from reading, and maybe even enjoying, it!**

* * *

"Mmf."

"James…"

"Mmmf."

"Shush."

"Mmmmf."

The woman sighed and turned round. "James," she said, "Shut up."

Moriarty glared at her. What an extremely rude statement, he thought. He had expected this mysterious woman to be at least a little more polite.

Then again, she _was _the woman who had just completely taken over his office in twenty minutes without so much as a 'please'. Maybe polite wasn't the word he was thinking of. More… subtle. Yes, that was right. He had expected her to be a lot more subtle.

Not to mention secretive. She hadn't explained in any way what she was doing, why she was doing it, or even what her name was. I mean, come on, Moriarty thought. She and I might want the same things. Have the same plans. I might be able to help her. And what has she done? Gone and tied me up in the corner like a common consulting detective. Does she know who I am?

He looked at her again, trying to pick out anything from her appearance that might answer the questions which she had been so rude as to neglect to answer them herself. Hat: lavishly decorated. Looked genuinely expensive. Hair tied up, but not for practical reasons; in fact it seemed like her hair was only balanced on top of her head in that elaborate way so that the hat could sit comfortably on top of it. Clothes: bespoke, definitely. Nowhere sold clothes like that on a mass scale, as far as he knew.

Many more facts threw themselves at Moriarty like lemmings to a trampoline next to a cliff, and Moriarty's mind sorted them into neat little piles as they came, but none seemed to have the answers. Rather like lemmings in that respect, Moriarty thought. He couldn't expect lemmings to have the answers either.

His eyes flicked over to the woman's umbrella. It lay innocently on the desk next to the woman, its black curled handle facing towards Moriarty. It looked like such a small thing. A trivial device for deflecting precipitation from one's head. Yet it was the very object that had left him completely at the mercy of a stranger just twenty minutes earlier. It was an object that could cause his downfall. And it used some form of technology that he, Jim Moriarty, did not have. He knew how it worked, of course: it was the same sort of theory as glass shattered by high frequencies of sound. The science of the matter didn't concern him. What did, however, was the fact that this woman, who seemed to have no power, no hundreds of scientists working around the clock under her orders (unlike him, of course), not even a _little _reputation, had this device. And he didn't.

All this thought flashed through Moriarty's mind in seconds, along with a dozen other massively developed plans and deductions. A single glance was all it took. Yet, even a single glance was too long. For the woman had seen it.

She followed the line that Moriarty had made with his eyes. When they alighted on the umbrella, she reached out a hand (still gloved, Moriarty noted. Did this woman ever take her gloves off?) and curled her fingers round the handle.

"You like it, James?" she said. "I know you do. I made it myself."

This woman really did get on his nerves. Not least because of her infuriating habit of calling him 'James'. It's Moriarty, or Professor if I'm in a bad mood. He would have said this out loud, if it weren't for the distasteful floral-patterned, but surprisingly strong, scarf that was tied around his mouth. Instead he just narrowed his eyes a bit, hoping that he looked threatening, or at least slightly disapproving.

Unfortunately, it is impossible to look threatening in a floral scarf. Moriarty learned this lesson the hard way.

The woman turned back to the computer, and Moriarty could have sworn she was supressing a laugh.

He glared at her back until he had had enough glaring, and then he glared a bit more, because he felt like it. Once he had glared for a good few minutes he stopped glaring altogether and set his mind on escaping.

Escaping. A three-syllabled word meaning 'to get free' or 'to avoid'. Language: English.

Well, he needed to do both. The question was how.

Hands. Cuffed with metal cuffs.

Feet. Cuffed with metal cuffs.

Mouth. Gagged with scarf. 100% Cotton, according to the label that was fluttering irritatingly on the edge of his vision. Also Do Not Wash and Keep Away From Fire.

Legs. Bound together. He was lucky the woman's intentions were to only keep him captive and not to torture him, Moriarty thought, otherwise his lower legs would probably be bound a lot tighter and turning purple by now.

Ears. Not bound, but the most movement he could do with them was waggle them a bit and that was only useful for amusing himself. Still, better than nothing.

Nose. Not bound, also unblocked. He was very glad that his blocked nose had cleared away some days ago, otherwise he would have right now been an asphyxiated heap on the floor due to the fact that it was his only means of getting air in.

Eyes. His eyes were open and ready. This was good. Many a time his eyes had proved his most dangerous weapon.

That was it. He retained the use of his eyes, nose and ears. The list of things he was able to do amounted to seeing, wiggling his ears in an amusing way, and not dying from asphyxiation.

Two of those things were quite useful, but it wasn't enough.

The woman _had _been careful.

He glared at her back again, and didn't stop for some time.


	4. Plans

**AN Just to let you know, I've only seen up to the Hounds of Baskerville. No spoilers please! Well, it's probably too late but never mind. Thanks to all reviewers, especially cluingforlooks, jack63kids and Juliana Brandagamba. Thanks everyone! Sorry this chapter's a bit short. I'll try and make the next ones longer. **

Moriarty couldn't take his eyes off her.

She was taking long, deliberate paces around his office, from corner to corner, up and down. Each step was forced, poised. Each step was a carefully planned work of art. Her eyes were focused on something in the distance Moriarty couldn't see and her expression was distracted.

He was wondering what had caused this sudden change. Before, she had been confident and assertive, her fingers flying over the keyboard at lightning speed as they tapped out whatever evil deed she was up to. Now, she was pacing around, muttering to herself and looking downright worried.

What had caused this? He thought back to a few minutes earlier. Yes, she had been at the keyboard, typing away (he'd always hated the sound of those keys. They made an irritating clickety-clackety noise, the 'a' key especially, and it always set his teeth on edge. But he'd never thought to get them changed, for it wasn't until he'd heard someone else using them that he realised just how annoying they were.) and then she had just – stopped. Just like that. Like the telephone when he shot it with an air rifle. And unlike the telephone, she had got up afterwards. She had started pacing the room then and was still at it now.

So logically the computer had just shown her something that she didn't like.

It did that to him sometimes too.

But only sometimes.

His gaze flicked to the computer screen. It was facing away from him, and with it, the answer to the cause of the woman's distress. Naughty computer screen. Didn't it know who its master was? Certainly not Mary Poppins over there. No, it was Moriarty, Moriarty of the pink mug and cool swivel chair. Professor Moriarty of the Round Coffee Table. Also known as Commodore Moriarty of the Twelfth Elf Fleet. James Moriarty of the Cool Stubble….

Mustn't let his thoughts wander.

Computer screen. He needed to see it. Only he was handcuffed to a wall (with his own handcuffs, he thought huffily) and the computer was nailed to his desk. Bother his own ingenuity.

The woman came in to his line of sight once more. Her expression hadn't changed, he noted. She also still wasn't looking at him. That was good.

Handcuffs weren't his exact line of expertise. He dealt more in matters of logic and mindplay. But he couldn't say he hadn't had more than his fair share of them.

His talents weren't exactly Houdini, perhaps, but he'd warrant he could get out of his own handcuffs.


	5. The Hokey Cokey

You put your left arm in.

Your left arm out.

In, out, in, out, shake it all about.

You do the Hokey Cokey and you in fact don't turn around, because you're tied to a chair and when turning around it helps to be not tied to a chair. Moriarty had no idea why he'd been attempting to use the Hokey Cokey as backing music to his handcuff-defeating endeavours. His left arm wasn't even going in and out – so far the most he had managed to do was wiggle his fingers a bit. Although, he supposed, he had only been trying for approximately 6.25 seconds. He couldn't expect too much of his limited skills. After all, 6.25 seconds wasn't even enough time to… fry an egg? Polish your shoes? Or… brush your teeth? Was that it?

Moriarty searched his mind. What was he thinking of? After a few seconds he realised he had no idea. In fact, he'd forgotten what he was trying to prove in the first place.

His thoughts had a habit of wandering off like that.

Huffily, he tried to gather them back again. Fingers… something to do with…

He looked down and saw that his hand had managed to wriggle free of the handcuff without him noticing. He blinked in surprise. He didn't realise it could operate without instructions- maybe he would have to give it a prize for independent thinking. What did hands like? Rings, maybe. Hand cream. Pocket watches.

No, wait, pocket watches were for pockets. _Wristwatches_ were for hands.

He felt his other hand move. Twisting around, he saw that that one had got free too.

Well, that was handy.

He groaned at the pun. Apparently his brain worked independently as well.

Glancing over to the woman, he saw her attention was still focused away from him. He wasted no time in reaching down to his feet and legs and releasing them from their respective bonds. As the cuffs came off his feet, they knocked against the floor, making the slightest of _'plink'_s.

Moriarty froze.

Slowly, as slowly as a panther creeping up on it prey, he turned.

The woman was in the same position as before.

Breathing a silent sigh of relief, he-

Wait.

There was something different about her.

He couldn't quite put his finger on it.

It wasn't her clothing, or hat, or hairstyle. And it wasn't anything about her posture. No, it was something about her face.

That was it. She was wearing glasses.

Now, that was interesting. They weren't sunglasses (not that there was any sun) and couldn't be for long-sightedness, or she would have been wearing them earlier. So she was short-sighted? How had he not noticed that before? There were usually easy enough clues- she would have sat closer to the computer screen, for one.

No, it couldn't be short-sightedness. He could tell when someone was short-sighted; he was Professor Moriarty, for goodness' sake. So it couldn't be that. It must be something else, something he was missing…

Of course. Why didn't he think of that before? My, he was getting slow.

He had two options now. Either he could sit nicely and wait for the woman to tie him up again, or he could make a break for it and try to reach the umbrella before she did.

Hmm, tricky decision. As if.

Moriarty got up, and made a break for it.

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**AN: Sorry it's short again, but the chapters will hopefully get longer when the story gets going/I have more inspiration/my creativity stops being semi-nomadic. Thanks for reviews!**


	6. Missy

She was already there. Grinning at him smugly with her smug little face and her smug little hat. The umbrella was already in her hand, her delicate fingers tracing the curve of the handle. The smug little handle. How he hated it.

He shouldn't have expected anything different.

No- he _should_ have expected something different. He was Professor James Moriarty, the cleverest person on the planet. No-one had crossed him and lived (except the ones he quite liked). He had hacked into Deep Blue and beat it at 36 consecutive games of chess just for the laughs, beat an owl in a staring contest, memorised pi to about 2,564 decimal places one rainy afternoon. One does not simply outwit _Jim Moriarty_ _himself_.

So why had she managed it? Not _how_ had she managed it, that wasn't the question. The question was why.

That thing with the glasses, it had been child's play. Why had he not noticed it earlier? Was it a simple case of mind-fail, very common at this time in the morning?

It wasn't impossible, he supposed.

He smiled good-naturedly at the woman. "Um… I regret to inform you that my handcuffs appear to have malfunctioned. Sorry for any inconvenience caused."

The woman smiled. "Oh, you are amusing. Congratulations, you escaped the impossible handcuffs, blah blah blah. A gold star for you."

Moriarty sighed as he realised what the woman was on about. "You made them easy to get out of on purpose, didn't you? I've been playing right into your hands for the past however long. You wanted me to escape."

She smiled. "And you passed the test with flying colours. Flying colours? Where does that phrase even come from? If I came across some flying colours I would probably check what I'd just eaten for suspicious-looking mushrooms. But anyway. Yes, I did want you to escape. And you have been playing right into my hands. And I did want to recapture you all along. But then, if I'm right…" She raised an eyebrow, challenging him. "You _wanted_ to play right into my hands."

Damn it, could that woman be any more annoying? "Oh, whatever," sighed Moriarty as he realised the woman was right. So that was why his brain had been being so annoying. "Yes, I did." He raised an eyebrow, then realised he was basically copying her and looked like an idiot, and put it down again. Which made him look even more idiotic. "You know, we're more similar than you think," he said. "My brain always goes off on tangents too. Maybe we'll be friends."

The woman's mouth curled up into a wicked smile. "My name is Missy," she said. "Short for Mistress. Previously Master, but, you know, things change. If we're going to work together we'd better know each other' names."

Suddenly that hat didn't look so sickly after all. It was quite nice actually.

"Jim Moriarty," said Moriarty. "But you knew that already. I was mostly just telling you to be polite."

"_Very _pleased to meet you, Mr Jim Moriarty. I hope we shall grow to know each other very well."

"And I also." He paused. "Oh, stuff these formalities, I'll get the biscuits."


End file.
